"She'll come down on top of her!" said Andrew, starting forward.
"Don't touch her!" exclaimed Miss Longmuir, grasping his arm.
With the tense caution of an old dog, the pony let herself down from step to step, planting her little hoofs cunningly on the rough-set stones, bracing herself with the skill learned on the rocky staircases of her native hills. Dr. Fraser kept a step in advance of her. Thus, with slow clattering, and in deep gravity, they joined Philippa in the yard.
Five people cannot advantageously collaborate in putting a saddle and bridle on a pony, but we tried, and in the grim hustle that resulted no one asked questions or made comments. Amongst us the thing was done, and there were still seven minutes in hand when Andrew shot out of the yard on her back. Hard on her heels followed Philippa and Miss Longmuir, with scarcely inferior velocity. I returned to the remaining member of the party and found that she had seated herself on the steps.
She said she was tired, and she looked it.
"I daresay getting that beast down the steps was rather a strain?" I said, spreading the pony's rug for her to sit on.
"Oh, that was nothing. Please don't wait for me."
I said in my best ironic manner that doctors were of course impervious to fatigue, and indeed superior to all human ills.
She laughed. "I admit that I was rather nervous that the thing wouldn't work, or would break down half-way."
"What thing?" I demanded. "The pony?"